


My Favorite High

by daughterofdurinanddestiel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angry John, Angst, Boys In Love, Declarations Of Love, Evil Mary, F/M, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt John Watson, John-centric, Johnlock Fluff, Love, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Miscarriage, POV John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Protective Sherlock, Requited Love, Secrets, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Truth, Unrequited Love, keeping secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daughterofdurinanddestiel/pseuds/daughterofdurinanddestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when John finds out that Sherlock temporarily died after Mary shot him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Favorite High

**Author's Note:**

> I am a sucker for "love confessions". I have thought of so many ways for Sherlock and John to get together, and this is a personal favorite! Enjoy your fluff and angst!
> 
> *Trigger warning: mentions of a past miscarriage.

“Morning, John.” Mary sounded bright as her husband walked into their breakfast nook. He was surprised that she was cooking. Having so recently had a miscarriage, she should have been resting.

“Hullo, Mary,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Why don’t you sit and I’ll finish up?”

She smiled gratefully. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?” It was Sunday, and his practice was closed.

“Maybe take a walk in the afternoon, but it’s so bloody cold I think I’ll sit inside and write for a bit. You?” He flipped a pancake.

“One of the neighbors wanted to get me out of the house. She’s so grateful since we rescued her boy. She thinks we should have a girls’ day out: movies, a nail salon, and maybe dinner, too.” Mary was excited. It was nice seeing her smile again.

As they were finishing eating, John’s phone beeped with a text message.

“Husband shot to death. Could be wife or mistress. Have to investigate. Meet me at Bart’s. -SH.”

John smiled. “Looks like we’re both going to have a fun day.” He showed Mary the text message.

“Ah, you blokes. Go and solve your murders. I think I’ve got the better deal out of the two of us,” she said.

 _That’s a matter of opinion_ , John thought, unbidden, as he stood up to get his coat and shoes. “Leave the dishes. I’ll take care of them later.” He kissed her again and was off. He knew to never let Sherlock Holmes wait any longer than necessary.

When he found the consulting detective, he was standing over a body bag while Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and lab tech Molly Hooper looked on. Greg was making a face at the garish wound in the victim’s chest.

“John. You’re late.” Sherlock said without John needing to announce himself.

“How’d you know it was me and not a worker here?” John asked. Sherlock was clever, but he still had only one set of eyes!

“You tread is easily recognizable to me after living with you for so long,” Sherlock replied, still not looking at him. “Come, look at this. This man was seeing a lady on the side, and his wife recently found out. Gavin had to go and take care of a domestic over there last week.”

“My name is Greg,” the inspector corrected for the millionth time.

“Po-tay-to, po-tat-o,” Sherlock murmured. “Who do you think did it, John? The wife or the mistress?”

“Well, it stands to reason who would gain more from his death? Did he have a significant sum to leave his wife in his will?” John asked.

Greg shook his head. “Modest man who had modest savings. I highly think less than twenty thousand pounds is significant enough to murder a man over.”

“For once, you’re right,” Sherlock commented, looking as surprised as Greg did.

“Then, the mistress wanted to kill him out of revenge,” John said.

Sherlock shook his head, his dark curls giving off a faint scent of shampoo. “Wrong. The mistress was 175cm. His wife was 162cm. See where the bullet wound is, John? How it angles straight, no movement of the bullet in the air before it hit its target? If his mistress had done it, it would have been angled just slightly downward; nearly imperceptible. But the bullet went straight into him. He was 182cm. He was shot from a distance of just a few feet, possibly a little over a yard, by a pistol. His own pistol, in fact. The height indicates that it was the wife, and could be no other unless there was someone of similar height who had a grievance against him.

“She killed him out of jealousy, that he could love another more than she.”

Sherlock looked up at Greg. “Well? Go and arrest her! Isn’t that your job? To think you had to call me in over such a trivial case.”

Greg started to speak but left before he could say something rude. He knew better. John was known for injuring the people who insulted Sherlock, and he did not want to encounter his wrath.

“Sorry I had to bother you over such a silly thing,” Sherlock said to John.

John laughed. “You don’t need to apologize. When Greg called you, how were you to know that it was so simple?”

“True. He was rather vague. It was as if he wanted us to take this particular case. Odd, now that you brought it to my attention. Anyway, why don’t you come back to Baker Street for some of Mrs. Hudson’s tea? Unless you have some other plans for the day?”

John was pleased and a little flustered at how Sherlock took his personal life into account when asking him to cases or just to visit. He had never known Sherlock to care about others so much.

“I’d like that,” John said, smiling.

“Great--ow!” Sherlock rubbed his abdomen.

“What’s the matter?” John asked, concerned.

Sherlock shook his head. “Ah, nothing. In this blasted weather, the bullet scar will give a twinge. I haven’t got used to it yet, that’s all. Excuse me--I just realized that Lestrade left without giving me some note he claimed to have for Mycroft. Why I have to be their bloody letter-carrier, I’ll never know. Better catch him now.” He turned his collar up and walked out of the room, leaving John with Molly.

John watched his retreating back, smiling to himself. In the span of knowing Sherlock, he had finally come to understand his emotions for the man. It had been awe, then irritation (well, let’s be honest, he was still irritated with him at times), denial, and finally acceptance. Acceptance of what? Need you ask? He loved the bloody idiot. Not as a friend, not anymore. He loved Sherlock Holmes with every fibre of his being. He just realized it too late, not that Sherlock would ever return his feelings were he to know about them. It was better this way, easier for them both.

Molly shook her head at Sherlock. “That’s been happening with all this poor weather we’ve been having lately. I always get frightened, thinking his heart is going to stop again. Silly, isn’t it?”

John was about to reply when he stopped to take in what Molly had just said. His heart? “Sherlock’s heart stopped? When was this and why was I not informed?” He knew he sounded frantic but could not bring himself to tone down his worry.

Molly looked at him, confused. “John, when he was shot. After they brought him in, his heart stopped for more than a full minute. They were about to declare him when he woke up again. Didn't anyone tell you?”

John scrambled for a chair before he fell to the floor, barely managing to sit down properly. His legs would not support him anymore. Sherlock had died. Actually died. Not faked his death. _Died_. “Did Sherlock know? Did they tell him when he awoke?”

Molly nodded. “Yes, they had to tell him. It’s the law.” She smiled. “I guess he didn’t want to worry you. I am so sorry! I honestly thought you knew.”

John waved her concern off. He was trying to steady his hands and his stuttering heartbeat. His nerves were trembling with this new fact that Sherlock oh, so conveniently forgot to tell him. Sherlock Holmes had died by the hand of John’s own wife.

“Don’t worry about it, Molly. I’m fine. I’ll just wait here for him to get back. You can go about your day--no need to babysit me.” He tried to sound like he was making a joke, but it was so difficult. She gave him another worried look before heading off.

John sat in the overly lit, cold room, hugging his coat to him in an unconscious act to comfort himself. He needed to think, but his mind could not get past the fact that Mary had killed Sherlock. Sure, it wasn’t intentional, but it had happened, and Sherlock had kept it from him. Why? Why had he encouraged John to take Mary back knowing that he had died by her hand?

Sherlock was the most important person in the world to John. He had thought he lost him once and that was bad enough. To have truly lost him...it would be unthinkable. His life before Sherlock was a sad, dour existence, and ever since they had met it had been bright and exciting, filled with adventure and love.

Sherlock was his everything, and that lying wretch who called herself his wife had almost taken him away forever. How could she? Because she knew. Of course she did. How had John not seen it? Mary was just like the jealous wife Greg had gone to arrest. Instead of killing John, however, she had tried to kill the mistress, in a sense.

That was why Greg had been so insistent that they take this simple case. To show Sherlock and John the truth.

He heard footsteps, but was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to look up till he heard Sherlock say, “John? What’s the matter?”

At the sound of his voice, something broke inside of John. He jumped out of the chair and threw himself into Sherlock’s embrace, nearly knocking over the younger man with his forcefulness. He clung to Sherlock, burying his face in his chest and smelling his unique scent of sweat, spice, and chemicals. To his surprise, he felt Sherlock hug him back, gently rubbing the back of his head with one hand.

“John,” he whispered. “Tell me, what is wrong?” John could not respond as a sob wracked his body, making Sherlock hold him even closer. He just wanted to be close to him, to never let go. To apologize for bringing Mary into their life. To apologize for choosing her over Sherlock. To tell Sherlock how much he loved him.

“John, you’re scaring me,” he said, and he did sound apprehensive.

John pulled away, wiping his red eyes with the back of one hand before wrapping that hand around Sherlock’s slim waist again. He could feel how thin he had gotten even through his coat. Without John at the flat, was he not taking proper care of himself again?

“What happened?” Sherlock asked again, his bright eyes dark. “Did someone do something? Was it Molly?”

John shook his head no. “Not Molly. Mary.”

“Is she well? Were there lingering complications from the miscarriage?” Sherlock wondered.

John grimaced. “I hope not. She’d get off bloody easy were she to die peacefully.”

“What?” Rarely was Sherlock ever surprised. At that statement, he stepped back from John, holding him by the shoulders to get a better look at him. “What on Earth did she do?”

John looked up at him, heart still racing. “Sherlock, she fucking killed you! Why did you never tell me? Why did you encourage me to take her back after what she did to you?”

Sherlock had the grace to look a little sheepish. “John, not here. We should talk about this back at Baker Street.”

John shook his head, his anger rising above his grief. “No, we’re going to discuss it right here, right now. You died, Sherlock! You died! And it was because of her bullet! You claimed she knew where she was shooting when she got you, but you died anyway! How could you lie to me?”

“I never lied. I selected what you needed to know,” Sherlock corrected.

“And you thought that your death was something I did not need to know? Are you off your fucking rocker?” John cried.

Sherlock gave that smug smile that drove John absolutely insane and said, “That’s a matter of perspective.”

John, however, was not mollified. “This is no time for jokes! She killed you. And yet you insisted that I take her back, forgive her. Why? Why make me take back the woman who took your life? It doesn’t matter that you woke up, or that she didn’t intend to kill you. What matters is that you might not have come back, and she would have taken from me the most important person in my life!”

Sherlock stopped and stood stock still, taking in John’s words. “I wanted you to forgive her because she made you happy, John. You deserve to be happy. If she was what it took, then my pain didn’t matter, as long as you were happy.”

John scoffed, ignoring the tears that were building in his eyes again. “She was simply a substitute that I found when you had faked your death, you idiot!”

Sherlock went to speak, closed his mouth, and then said, “John, I think that this conversation is going to get quite personal. Might it be better for us both if we went back home to finish it? Come.” He reached out and took John’s arm, gently tugging on his sleeve to get him to move.

John tried to stop him, but Sherlock was insistent. “This is not something to discuss here.” He hailed a taxi and they drove to 221b Baker Street. Home. The place that John would always consider home. If the saying was true, that home was where your heart is, then as long as Sherlock resided there, it would be John’s home as well.

As they ascended the stairs, John heard the pleasant tones of Mrs. Hudson greet them, but Sherlock silenced her. “We need privacy, Mrs. Hudson. Excuse us.” He half dragged John into the flat, locking the door behind them.

“John, you need to understand, when I came back and saw you with Mary...saw that you were happy...it was really all that mattered to me. Your joy. If Mary gave you joy, I wanted you to have her no matter what the cost,” Sherlock said, removing his scarf and coat.

“Even if that cost was your very life?” John asked, breathless.

Sherlock nodded.

“Then you really are an arsehole!” John said. “Sherlock, your death would ensure that I could never be truly happy ever again. I was merely existing till I met you. Only after that was I ever truly living. You gave me so much, Sherlock. You made me feel so _much_. I could never be truly happy with you dead.”

Sherlock stepped closer, his movements calculated and unsure. John was not an observant person, but when it came to Sherlock he observed everything. And the way he was acting right then was not the norm for his best friend.

“John...I am sorry I did not tell you,” he began. “I just wanted you to have the life you deserved, the life you always wanted.”

“That’s not what I wanted,” John said. “Not even close.”

Sherlock looked surprised. “What? Then John, what do you want? If it is not Mary, what do you want?”

John looked up into those beautiful, expressive, and ethereal eyes and said, “You.”

Unsure if Sherlock would kick him out of the flat, question him, yell at him, or anything worse, John waited for a response. The response he got was the last thing he ever expected. One moment they were standing in the middle of the flat, and the next he was flat on his back on the couch with the detective on top of him, soft lips pressed against his in a heated kiss.

When Sherlock pulled away--much too soon in John’s opinion--he said, “I faked my suicide for you. I let Mary shoot me for you. I shot Magnussen for you. I did everything for _you_ , John, because I love you more than anything, including my own life.”

John’s tears started to flow, but he ignored them as he wound his hands in Sherlock’s dark, soft curls and pulled him down for another kiss.

“Why did you never tell me how you felt?” John asked, his breath on Sherlock’s ear.

“Because I did not think you would welcome my advances. I knew you were repressed bisexual, but I did not want to force you to confront that until you were ready. I also had no intention of ruining our friendship. I love what we have, and would hate for it to be ruined.”

John chuckled. “Nothing could ruin us, Sherlock. Nothing.”

Sherlock held John and both men were silent for a moment, listening to each other’s breathing. John was so comfortable, he never wanted to leave this embrace.

“Mary knew. She knew how we both felt. That was the real reason she shot me. In the end, she couldn’t kill me outright because she didn’t want to break your heart,” Sherlock explained. “We both love you too much to risk hurting you.”

“I don’t care what she feels, Sherlock. I really don’t,” John admitted. “What I care about is this, right here.” He pressed his palm over Sherlock’s beating heart. “I care about you. About us. About the lost time we have to make up for.”

Sherlock reached for his coat, getting a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket. “Here. This is from Mycroft. The number for our family lawyer. Lestrade gave it to me today. He brought us to that crime scene on purpose, the bastard.”

“I know,” John said, taking the paper. “Thank Mycroft for me.”

“Like that will happen,” Sherlock said, smirking as he kissed John. His grip on the doctor got a little bit tighter. “You are mine, John Watson. Mine. Finally mine.”

John nuzzled Sherlock’s neck. “Yes. Yes, I am yours, and so fucking glad. I am sorry it took your near death experience to bring us to this point.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how we got to this point. What matters is that we did, John. We’re here. I have never known what love is, till right now. This is far better than any drug. This is my new favorite high.”

He abruptly stood up, swooping John in his arms like a bride, making the doctor laugh.

“What are you doing, you git?”

Sherlock grinned, a predatory look that gave John butterflies. “As you said, we have lost time to make up for.”

“And Mary?”

“You can inform her of the divorce after I’m done with you...provided you can still speak after screaming my name for so long.”

 


End file.
